


Flying with Danger

by Merfilly



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-28
Updated: 2007-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:13:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merfilly/pseuds/Merfilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back in the 70s, Slade taught him. He still has lessons to give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flying with Danger

The blond was completely bored by the jostling, bickering crowd of flyboys. He wanted to know just what in hell Command had been thinking to insist these…kids…get taught how to fight. If these kids went down in enemy territory, he figured they'd piss themselves and die in short order. It took guts to fight face to face with the enemy, instead of riding high and dropping shit on people they'd never even see.

Waste of his time, the blond grumbled, itching to get back to the front lines.

His boredom was interrupted when one of the pretty little flyboys hauled off and decked another. Seemed the kid didn't like being hassled over his jacket being vintage Korean War issue.

It made blue eyes thoughtful, as Wilson barked for them to line up and pair off for their first lesson.

`~`~`~`~`

The kid, Jordan, was in it for the flying. So he said, anyway, but the jacket screamed more. The bomber jacket told Wilson this was about a legacy.

It helped him know his target, to read the words under the body's language.

This kid had something to prove, and it showed in every punch, every twist.

Wilson was just as glad the class had an uneven number, keeping Jordan to himself for sparring every day.

`~`~`~`~`

There was a measure of steel that ran through his student. Class was going to be drawing down within the week, and Wilson had seen more than enough to know this kid, if he made it out of the war, would go far.

He'd never been one to touch a fire like that and not find a taste of it to keep.

Turned out, Jordan wasn't too upset by the notion, as they met out beyond the compound.

The flyboy barely knew what to do, he was so young, but Wilson had always been a great teacher.

And the kid had a very skilled mouth for things other than running off with it.

`~`~`~`~`

**New York, Mid 80s**

Deathstroke had to admit the pair of Leaguers up against him was damn good. It was taking all his skill to get them off his ass, so he could get free and escape before the police caught up.

The Green Lantern never should have let his guard down like that. 

It was only after the fighting was said and done that Deathstroke realized he knew that voice.

Memories of a pretty flyboy in a bad part of the world kept him company as he moved again.

`~`~`~`~`

**Aftermath of Superman's Death, 90s**

It wasn't his place to deal with the stupid shit, but with the heroes all on edge from their mightiest falling, Slade Wilson knew where the profit was. A few words, a couple of examples, and the ruffians knew to keep their heads down. None of the costumed crowd needed grief-mad heroes falling on them.

A quiet drink to relax, in one of the watering holes on the west coast, should not have led to more trouble. Sure, Slade had heard about Coast City. It had been a huge factor in his decision that there really wasn't any profit in letting the idiots pipe up and get the capes down on them.

Then _he_ walked in.

Slade knew him on sight, knew that beat up bomber jacket. Slade had many faults, but his mind could not let go of anything, and the pretty flyboy of then matched up against this ragged wreck of a man enough to draw the match.

He wondered why the flyboy was slumming in a bar like this, when the world had gone to hell and most heroes were helping stem the damage caused by the four interlopers claiming Superman's legacy.

"Buy you a drink?" he offered, as he moved to sit next to the man. Jordan looked up, processed the face and put it with the files in his own head.

Slade had no doubt the blond drill instructor was a forgotten shard, as Jordan visibly gritted his teeth to see the white-haired, one-eyed villain known as Deathstroke.

"You have some nerve," Jordan growled. "Sons of bitches like you are…"

"Hold up, flyboy," Slade cautioned, looking at glances their way. "Take the drink, then bitch at me. Not the other way around. It's not sporting."

Jordan fumed, but did order another drink since he had slammed his whiskey down already. Slade accepted his own bourbon, and looked at the ring-slinger with interest.

"Surprised to see you in here, when all your buddies are trying to fix that mess out there," Slade commented when they both had finished off two more drinks.

Jordan ground his teeth again. "There's really no point, is there? We fix the shit, then someone comes along and blows your entire life to hell anyway," he growled, slamming down his tumbler, shattering it in his hand. "Fuck." He stared at his hand as it began to bleed.

Slade had seen men at the end of their ropes; he'd been there, even.

Jordan was there now, and the end was coated with grease.

"Come on, Jordan. I've got a place nearby," Slade said, deciding then and there, for that pretty flyboy who had made a boring tour a little more fun, to offer this one thing. The hero looked askance at him, but something in him responded to that sure command to go with.

`~`~`~`~`

Desperate men and desperate times had always led to strange adventures for Slade. He had gotten Jordan's hand bandaged in the car, but still took him home to the little motel room he had been living out of.

Jordan had started muttering about galactic threats and villainy being the end result of life. Slade could not reconcile this bitter, hurting man with that eager, fiery flyboy of the past.

Then Jordan started talking about Coast City.

That's when Slade realized what it was breaking the man who had grown from that boy.

He just wasn't ever sure in the aftermath of it what made him reach over and grab the back of Jordan's neck quite like that.

"You can't give up what you do, Jordan. It's in your blood, part and parcel with who you are," Slade told him. "It's why you wear that jacket."

Jordan tensed to the touch, but the words brought confusion to red-rimmed eyes.

"You don’t know me. You don't know shit, no matter how you figured out who the fuck I am," Jordan snapped.

"Son, you're behind enemy lines right now, with the way you're thinking. I think I taught you how to fight your way out of that shit, twenty years ago." One blue eye met the brown ones as confusion gave way to fumbling recognition.

"All these years…you?!" he hissed. Slade started to reply, but Jordan shook his head. "What kind of fucking game are you at, Wilson?"

"No game, Jordan…just offering a view you might not get from just about anyone else."

"I don't need your view…" He started to get up, but Slade's heavy hand closed on his neck again, and wouldn't let him.

"You're walking a path to destruction."

"And you care?"

"Hate to see a man fail to live up to his potential and defeat himself," was the dry retort. "Hobby of mine."

The hero wavered in his anger, as those words slammed home. Hal Jordan never admitted defeat…and yet, he could see it. Going off with Ollie had not helped; all he could see was Coast City, and all he ached to do was join her in oblivion.

He had given up.

"Fuck." His eyes turned away from the man that had talked sense into him, not wanting to admit the fucking mercenary assassin (teacher/distraction) was right.

"Hell of a world we're in." Slade's tone was neutral. "Going to take some damn strong men and women to make it back into anything worth while."

"Make it…" Hal thought hard about Coast City, about the power at his disposal. "You're making too much sense, Wilson."

"Always did, Flyboy," Slade said, letting his voice drop half an octave in pitch, tone growing silken. When Jordan shuddered, the hand on his neck kneaded just a little.

Jordan looked back at him, a little less lost, and ideas brewing in his eyes.

"I'm not that kid you got to suck you off back then," Jordan warned, responding on a deep core level to the distraction now being offered to him.

"No?" Slade's lips twisted in a slight smile. That was all it took before Jordan leaned in, kissing him with anger, with grief, and with a need to just not think about it right now.

Slade Wilson still thought the man's mouth was talented, as they dueled for control of the kiss. His hand stayed on Jordan's neck, while the other man tangled both fists into white hair and held on, keeping the battle tight.

It was Jordan, though, who had to break for air, unable to truly win the battle of wills. As soon as he did, Slade was on him, pushing him back on the couch they shared, laying over him.

Hal protested with a twist of his body, but the hands opening his clothes were only slightly less demanding than the teeth finding his skin. He was not completely lost, though, as he called on the green energy at his command to jerk Slade's shirt open, letting him return those biting kisses.

For Slade, it was a passing encounter to push things to this level. He had never been the type to deny his own pursuits when time and chance offered him a tantalizing taste of life.

Jordan wanted to bury his near self-defeat, to reassert his control on all things of his life.

Slade was quite satisfied to let this be as much combat as it was sex, combining his two favorite pastimes.

The sound of Jordan's inevitable surrender was all the sweeter for it.

`~`~`~`~`

Deathstroke was glad for business going back to normal. If he sometimes wondered just what the flyboy had done with his wakeup call, he kept it to himself.

Especially when his flyboy vanished and was replaced by that pretty boy in the Titans.

Some things weren't meant for him to know.


End file.
